Little Werewolf Oven
by BittahWizard
Summary: "Introduction to Chaos Theory" Part 3 / The one with Derek fucking Hale.


Derek Hale is sitting in a Chili's.

Derek Hale is sitting in a tattered booth at what could be described as an _abandoned _Chili's.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" a perky blonde waitress asks him.

Make that _almost _abandoned.

"No," he growls, not even glancing at her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her face fall.

"Right, um, just flag me down if that changes." And then she scurries away.

He continues looking out the window to his right, watching as people power-walk by.

Derek pulls out his phone and checks the time—at least, that's what he tells himself.

There aren't any new messages. No missed phone calls.

_Goddamnit, Laura._

Standing up, Derek makes his way into the bathroom. He dials, leaning against the sinks.

_Ring!...Ring!...Ring!..._

"Heeeyyy, little brother—what's up?"

"Laura," he sighs out, the sound of his sister's voice—his _Alpha's _voice—a balm he didn't know he'd needed. His shoulders relax, but then he remembers why he's calling and his face defaults into a scowl. "Why haven't you called me back?"

"It hasn't been that long, has it?"

"It's been _two days_ since we've talked!" he pushes off of the sinks and starts to pace in the tiny walkway between the basins and the toilets. "And you've been gone for a _week_ now!" He's not being paranoid for being worried.

He's not.

_He's not._

"You can't just go back to that absolute _nightmare_ of a town and expect me to—"

"Oh," Laura sucks in a surprised breath. "I'm sorry."

"…and think that—wait what?" he stops short, fist clenched and claws digging into his palm. He closes his eyes, resting his hand against the wall and leaning into the cool tile.

"I'm sorry. I just—time got away from me. It's been, well, it's actually been really good here. I know I told you last time that I made a friend and that I've been visiting Peter, but I've also made some headway into that message we were sent."

Derek slumps in relief. "Really?"

"Really." He can hear the smug pride in her voice. "And Stiles? He's—"

"What the hell is a _Stiles_?" he grumbles out, not really annoyed but feeling that he should be—after all, it's still Laura's fault he's in a Chili's restroom.

She laughs, and then the phone becomes muffled. He can hear her shout something, and then Laura says, "The friend I told you about. Anyway, I've been staying at his house—"

"I remember now," he mutters, "you told me you were staying with some stranger, said he makes the best pot roast, and then hung up." He bangs a fist against the wall. Some of the tiles crack—the ceramic spider-webs, powdered bits gently falling to the floor. "And then you didn't answer my calls for two days."

"Right, right," Laura mumbles. "I'yam sowwy 'bout that."

"Are you _eating_ something?"

"Mmhmm," he can hear her chew—Jesus, Laura. "Ba-na-nah."

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "So, when are you coming back?"

An obnoxiously gross swallow of banana gurgles over the speaker. He knows that she's doing it just to distract him. "Laura…" he warns.

"Give me another week," she says after a beat.

"Uh-huh," Derek rolls his eyes.

He can hear a distant voice through the phone: "…you talking to?"

There's a pause, and then Laura goes, "You know what? Derek, I'm going to switch this over to video." She sounds like she's planning something.

"What? Laura, why do you—"

And then Derek's phone _boops!_

He looks down at the screen and accepts the video chat. "Okay, so back to—wait, you're not Laura."

"Heh heh, no. No, I'm very much a teenage male that is not, uh, your sister." Brown eyes flick nervously to the left. "So," the guy clears his throat, "hi!" He waves shyly, long finger wiggling. "I'm Stiles. Laura tossed her phone at me and then bolted into the kitchen…and yeah, out the backdoor. She's outside now." A nervous chuckle. "I take it you're Derek."

So that's Stiles.

Huh.

Not what Derek expected.

"Stiles," is all he can think to say in response.

"Yeah, big guy, that would be me—Stiles," the guy's eyebrows are scrunched a little bit.

"How old are you?" Derek searches Stiles' face—he's pale, dotted with moles, has a wide mouth, and a slightly upturned nose. He's not exactly sure what he was expecting the mysterious Stiles to look like—okay, that's not true, Derek was expecting a middle-aged psychopathic predator—but if anything, Laura's the creepy one in this arrangement.

Derek's stomach sours.

"I'm almost seventeen," Stiles frowns, looking more thoughtful than offended by Derek's question. "Laura's fine, you know. My dad and I are totally looking out for her. Oh! Did she tell you? My dad ran down the phone number that sent you and Laura that picture of the deer and he—"

"Your dad?" Derek asks, leaning his back against the wall. "What do you mean?"

"You and your sister really need to work on communication, dude." Stiles seems to be walking somewhere. "Also, you guys cut people off when they talk a lot," he mutters. "Maybe that's a part of it." Stiles taps a finger to his temple. "Think about it. Anyway, yeah so, my dad—Sheriff Stilinski. He's traced down the number, and he's trying to find the lady who sent it." There's a pause. "It was your Uncle's nurse, Jennifer."

Oh.

Derek's eyes widen a little in surprise.

_Oh._

"I mean, I guess not all evil people have to be masterminds, y'know? But…by the looks of it, you had no idea any of this was going on?" Stiles looks perplexed.

Derek knocks his head back against the wall. "No. No, I didn't."

"Your sister seriously didn't tell you any of this? What the hell?" Stiles looks angry…on Derek's behalf? "Laura!" he shouts out. "What the hell?!" The image of Stiles goes shaky as he starts to move again.

To Derek, Stiles continues, "No wonder you were so freaked out and called her all the time! You didn't even know how old I was or who she was staying with! Fuck, dude, that sucks."

Derek blinks. He hears a door open.

"Yes, Laura, you suck! That is, yes—that's exactly what I meant by that!" Stiles yells. The door clicks shut. "I swear to Batman, Derek, your sister is so weird."

Unable to school his features like he usually does around strangers—what with Stiles' disarming verbal assault—the corner of Derek's mouth twitches.

"That's one word for it."

Stiles gapes a little. "You're…funny. _You're funny. _Holy shit, Laura said you were but then I saw your _eyebrows_ and your _face,_ and I was like, _that's not a funny face, Stiles, that's a very serious and judgey face_, but dude—you, indeed, are funny."

Derek's mouth is definitely trying to smirk.

It's very disconcerting.

"So, the talking thing—that's like your default setting, huh?"

"Wuh, ummm," Stiles splutters. "Ahem, okay, so your funny is a _mean funny_—that's good to know."

Derek is now smirking against his will. For the first time in his entire life, Derek is _bemused._

He zones back in to what Stiles is rambling on about. "…your sister, I swear she has some sort of potassium deficiency or something because she's been eating like, three bananas a day! Is that a thing? Do werewolves even get vitamin deficiencies? I mean, Laura says she can't cook very well, so maybe she really _does_ have some sort of nutritional problem? She even tried to convince me that you guys just eat raw meat—y'know, from like animals that you find in the woods and kill? That's _definitely_ not healthy. She really liked my 'little werewolf oven' idea, though—called it ingenious."

Stiles snorts. "I was just trying to be a sarcastic asshole, but sometimes the hits just don't land the way you want them to." The guy sounds wistful.

_Wistful._

"Werewolf," Derek grits out, mind and heart racing.

Stiles looks over his shoulder and back. He licks his lips once. "Yes—as in, you…are…one?" Stiles' voice ends the question with a high-pitched squeak.

"You…know that we're werewolves?"

"Well…" Stiles' eye twitches. "…me and my dad do."

"Laura told you?"

Derek isn't even processing at this point.

"I'm guessing this is another thing she didn't tell you about?"

Derek nods faintly, face paling.

"…Derek?! Derek? Can you hear me? Derek, yeah, big guy—just breathe. Just breathe with me, in…and out…"

Derek listens to the low timbre, releasing the trapped breath in his lungs. He can feel his eyes flash—that haunting, horrible blue—so he slams them shut and focuses on that voice, the voice that's stupidly soothing for a total stranger. He hears a heartbeat—too fast, but consistent—and he latches onto that constant.

He lets out a final, shuddering breath, and then allows his eyes to open.

"You with me Derek? Laura's here, breathing like a crazy person over my shoulder."

There's a scrambling sound, a glimpse of a white ceiling, and then Laura's face comes into view.

"Derek, are you alright?"

"You…told them, about us? About _Peter?_" Derek growls out. "What else, Laura?! _What else?_"

Silence falls between them.

Derek's life is upending, for a third time, in the bathroom of an abandoned Chili's.

"The fire, Derek," Laura whispers. "The Sheriff is looking into the evidence. He hasn't said anything, it's too early, but Stiles said his dad is worried—said the investigation, even from a cursory glance, was shoddy, too quick." There's a pause. "Derek, we both remember the mountain ash—we both know it wasn't an accident. And now, neither do the police."

Derek slides down the wall, phone clenched limply in his hand.

"Derek, I'm sorry, but our family needs—_we _need, hell _I_ need, to know."

"Shut up," Derek croaks.

Laura shuts up.

"You're my sister, Laura, and I love you—but I don't...I don't really like you right now. You left, and you ignored my calls. And when you did answer them, you—you couldn't even tell me the whole truth, treating me like a child who can't be trusted to handle real life." He looks his sister in the eye. "You're just like her."

"Derek," Laura whispers, stricken.

"Put Stiles on the phone," he croaks out.

"Derek, I—"

"I've wanted to talk to you for a week, Laura, and now? Now I want to talk to Stiles," he grinds out. "So put him on the fucking phone."

Her eyes flash red, and then the phone cuts away to a lamp.

"Derek?" Stiles asks.

"If you hurt my sister, or let my sister get hurt, I'll rip your throat out—_with my teeth_."

Stiles looks at him, eyes calm and evaluating. "I'm not going to get upset about that, because from what I heard—which wasn't much, thank Christ—that conversation you just had with your sister was really, really shitty. So I won't take what you said personally, but, I will remind you that, if you do _do that_, my father will arrest your little werewolf ass so quickly, and with so much buddy-cop charisma that you won't even mind going to prison _forever_."

"Keep going," Derek interrupts.

"…Wait, what?" Stiles asks.

"Keep talking," Derek continues, breathing more evenly. "It helps."

"My talking…helps?"

"It's like a white noise machine," Derek huffs.

"I know I'm pale, but you don't have to bring race into this," Stiles cracks.

Derek groans. "God, that was bad."

Derek pauses. "Keep going."

So, Stiles does. He talks and he talks.

And Derek? Derek sits in a Chili's bathroom and listens.

He doesn't even realize how long he's been doing just that until Stiles asks, "Are you in a Chili's restroom?"

Derek hardens his gaze. "Why would you ask that?"

_Don't blush._

"Well, the little chili peppers on the tiles are a pretty good giveaway."

Derek looks up at the wall, and sure enough, little cartoon chili peppers are peppered across the ceramic.

_Goddamnit, Chili's._

So that he can't be embarrassed, Derek chooses to remain silent.

Stiles smirks. "That's what I thought."

Shit.

_This kid._

"You're hiding out from the crowds until it's time to go, huh?"

Derek looks back at Stiles sharply. "How did you know that?"

"There's only one reason people eat at a Chili's, Derek."

Valid. But Derek only grunts in reluctant confirmation.

"I'd probably just get a burger or something. I'm looking at the menu online and I'm not sure if I'd brave salmon or fajitas from a chain restaurant—although I'm not sure if that would affect you? Do you get, y'know—the tummy _rumblies_ from certain foods?"

"Thanks, Stiles, for that lovely image."

Stiles beams, the edges of his grin a little manic. "You're very welcome."

Derek feels drained, but he does, indeed, feel better.

Seriously, just who the fuck is this kid?

His phone _blips!_

Low battery.

"I've gotta go," Derek says.

"Yeah, yeah. Go get something to eat before you waste away in that bathroom."

"Bye, Stiles," Derek grumbles.

"Goodbye, Derek Hale. I look forward to meeting you. _In person_." And then his voice cuts out, the call time flashing on the screen.

An hour.

He's been listening to some random guy prattle on for an hour about everything and nothing, and he feels more at ease than he has all week.

If he were a bigger man—a better man—he'd examine that more closely.

But he's not, so he shuts that shit down _hard_.

Then he picks himself up, washes his hands, and splashes a little water on his face.

Derek makes his way back into the dining room—still deserted, he might add—and he sits back down at his booth.

A different waiter practically scampers over to his table. "Hi, there! Welcome to Chili's! Can I get you something to drink? Maybe a little queso to start with?"

"I'll have a water," Derek mutters. "And a burger."

"Okay, then! I'll have that right out."

When he's alone again, Derek leans back into the booth and turns his gaze to the window.

And he sits, in a Chili's booth, waiting for his burger.

Oh, and for his flight to California.


End file.
